Do You Believe in Magic?
by Silver Weasley
Summary: The Winchesters head off to England to investigate some mysterious deaths in Godric's Hollow. Turns out they're not the only ones on the case, and unfortunately, rock salt won't work on Harry Potter and Co. [SPNxHP crossover, AU]
1. Prologue

**Do You Believe in Magic?**

_Summary: _

The Winchesters head off to England to investigate some mysterious deaths in Godric's Hollow. Turns out they're not the only ones on the case, and unfortunately, rock salt won't work on Harry Potter and Co. SPNxHP cross-over, AU

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Winchesters, and I certainly don't own Harry, Ron, Hermione, or their universe. (Psh, like I'm that cool.)

**Be prepared for a really, really long author's note (skip this if you're not a detail-oriented nut like me who likes a good explanation now and then):**

What's this, you say? Silv is branching out from writing Harry Potter oneshots and not-even-close-to-half-finished multi-chaptered stories? She's actually posting something from a _different fandom _(and no, I hardly count that PotC story, which is, for general information, the shortest story I've written, ever)? Well...yes and no. See, I'm just really, _really _got into Supernatural, and I have not seen the second season, or the final ep of the first season, so this story is gonna be compeltley AU. I'm going with what I know about the Winchesters and branching from there.

And of course, I _have _to throw some Harry Potter in there. Seriously.

This is my first cross-over story, and sadly enough, my _Supernatural _one...uh, well it's SORTA _Supernatural. _You know the Golden Trio and Company had to make an appearance, right? So yeah, bear with me. I had more fun writing this than I've had in months, which is sort of sad, but also kinda neat. xD The title is subject to change because I sat there for an hour trying to think of one, and that's the best I could come up with. I'm posting the prologue and first two chapters now and if it's recieved well, I'll definitely continue. If not...um, then we'll just pretend this never happened, and chalk it all up to the stress of homework and my psychological need to escape the daily pressures of teenage life, yeah? Ah well. Here goes nothing. (And _yes, _I think I might get past two friggin' chapters before my inspiration dries up this time.)

**_ooo_**

Prologue

Sam Winchester took a sip of lukewarm coffee, and blinked blearily at his laptop.

Finding a job was proving to be harder than expected.

Not, he noted wryly, that there wasn't plenty of bad stuff going on. A school shooting. A family of five drowning in a freak boating accident. Some poor bullied kid driven to suicide.

It was all bad and depressing and everything, but there wasn't a thing that seemed to be up the Winchester's ally.

"I don't believe this," Sam announced, turning to look at his brother, who was stretched across the motel bed, idly sharpening a dangerous-looking machete. "Absolutely _nothing_."

"Of course there's something," Dean grunted. "There's _always _something."

"Well, if it's there, it's not making headlines. I've scanned the national papers, too—there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary; no random deaths, nobody missing." He shifted uncomfortably. "It's _too _normal. I don't like it, Dean."

"You must be missing something," his older brother informed him, not even looking up from his work. "Keep at it, Sammy."

"It's Sam. And if you're so sure I'm _missing something_, then why don't you prove me wrong and find it yourself?" Sam snapped, scowling. Dean propped himself up on an elbow, set down the machete, and motioned his brother over.

"Well, if that's the way you're gonna be, Sammy-boy, I guess I'd better."

"Yeah, good luck with that." Sam plunked the computer down next to his brother, yawned widely, and flopped down on the other bed. "While you're wasting time, I think _I'll _try to get some rest."

"You do that," Dean said absentmindedly, already engrossed in the news.

_Moron_, Sam thought, rolling his eyes as he turned onto his side. _We'll see how smug he is after he's been—_

"Sam, I think I got something!"

_­—Or not._

"What?" Sam scrambled upright, slightly shocked. "That's impossible—I spent _hours—_"

"Obviously you weren't looking in the right places," Dean informed him with an air of utmost self-satisfaction. "Read it and weep, kiddo." Irritably, Sam flopped down on Dean's bed and snatched the laptop. The website Dean seemed to have been perusing was CNN, and the bolded red headline jumped out at Sam:

**Mysterious deaths terrify town; local police stumped.**

_Godric's Hollow—_

_This little village is not so sleepy anymore._

_Last Thursday, Adrian Banks, 45, his wife, Gina, 37, and their son, Gregory, 12, were found murdered in their home. Two days before, Benjamin and Amelie Hargrove ( both 24), a couple living a few blocks away, were found in a similar condition, and just yesterday, Marianne Wilkins, 49, was discovered dead inside the restaurant she owned._

_In all cases, there was no sign of struggle, the doors and windows were locked, and strangest of all, the cause of death—for all six— has yet to be determined._

"_There's not a mark on them!" said coroner Arnold Martin. "All appear to be in nearly perfect health, except for the fact that they're dead. In fact, the only thing that seemed wrong with them were their expressions; they looked absolutely terrified!"_

_These strange deaths are not the first of their kind._

_Decades ago, in the village of Little Hangleton (located only a few hours south of Godric's Hollow), the Riddle family was murdered in their mansion, and almost four years ago, so was their elderly groundskeeper (originally a suspect in the case). All bore terrified expressions, and it was impossible to determine the cause of death. _

_The murders seem linked, but relatively untraceable. The next-door neighbor of the Banks family, Jeremy Tucker, seemed unclear on what might have happened to the victims and noticed nothing amiss before and after their deaths. _

"_I don't rightly recall what I've done for the last week, really," a sheepish Tucker admitted. "All's I know is that one day it occurred to me to check in on Adrian and—well—it wasn't a pretty sight, not a pretty sight at all."_

_  
Neighbors and friends of the other victims were equally befuddled, and there are no reported witnesses. _

_All residents of Godric's Hollow have been advised to be overly-cautious when it comes to safety, and many have left town. _

Sam glanced over at Dean, eyebrows raised.

"What sort of thing kills without leaving a mark?"

"Couple bastards I can think of off the top of my head," Dean replied casually. "Wraiths. A few types of demon—I'm sure there's more in Dad's journal. Point is, those deaths sound fishy, and the people in that village need help. I say we hop in the Impala and blow this juke-joint."

"Uh, there might be a bit of a problem with that," Sam informed his brother, grinning widely.

"Yeah? And why's that, college boy?"

"Well for one, Godric's Hollow is in _England. _You were browsing international news, genius."

"Wha—_England?_ You've gotta be kidding me!"

"Nope. Says so right here." Sam gestured pointedly at the computer screen. "I'll admit the stuff going on there sounds like our kind of job, but it's not the kind of job we can really afford. Plus, you've got that thing with planes, remember?"

"Ugh." Dean scowled at the computer screen contemplatively. "Well, I dunno, Sammy. England as a country hasn't exactly had the best luck lately, has it?"

"Yeah, you're right. Weird weather, I heard, the worst it's ever been. And yeesh, remember when they had some sort of mass break-out from a high-security prison?"

"Yeah, and that was only last year." Dean rubbed his chin thoughtfully, squinting at the headline. "You know, we might be able to help. And, seeing as how there's no new leads on the demon and the US of A seems relatively supernatural-free for the moment, what've we got to lose?"

"You've got to be kidding me," Sam said, staring in slight horror at his brother. "Dean, where are we going to get the _money _for an international trip, not to mention passports?"

"Please. Passports are no big thing; I can whip 'em up by tomorrow. As for the money—that's what credit card scams are for."

"Dean, this is big. This is—" Sam paused. "—this is illegal on about five different levels. I mean, if we do something to get ourselves arrested outside of America, that could be it. There's no way we're getting off easy. And suppose something crops up while we're gone? Suppose…suppose Dad needs us, or…" He trailed off as Dean raised his eyebrows skeptically. "…I can't believe you're actually _serious_."

"The only thing I'm not looking forward to is the damned plane ride, but I guess it'll be worth it if we can help get rid of whatever it is attacking that village," Dean announced. "And just think, Sammy, England has all sorts of interesting history crap you can see! Castles! Shakespeare's grave!"

"I doubt we'll have time to be tourists, Dean," Sam said tiredly, but he seemed a bit more keen on the idea. "Ok, fine, England it is, but don't say I didn't try and stop you."

"Whatever." Dean rolled off the bed, grabbed his duffel, and pawed through it. "Start packin', Sammy. We've got a town to save."


	2. Powerful Enough to Make Dean Shut Up

_Disclaimer:_

I don't own anything, wut.

**_ooo_**

**Chapter One:**

**Powerful Enough to Make Dean Shut Up **

The Inn at Godric's Hollow was a dilapidated but friendly looking place, typical of English countryside and pretty much unremarkable.

That didn't make Dean feel any better.

"Relax," Sam whispered to his elder brother, who was on edge, his fingers curled around the handle of a loaded .45 in his jacket's inner pocket. "There's nothing wrong with this place, at least. Have some stew; it's good."

"I don't want stew."

"Come on, man, you have to eat."

"I don't want the damn stew, Sam. This place makes me nervous."

Sam sighed, rolling his eyes and eating another spoonful of his dinner. They'd checked into the inn about an hour ago, and he'd dragged a rather paranoid, jetlagged Dean down to the dining hall. Being tired made Dean nervous.

The flight had been bad enough—no amount of Metallica humming could get Dean to relax, and when Sam tried to remind him that the whole stupid trip had been _his idea, _Dean had glowered and snarled,

"Thanks a lot for the update, Captain Obvious. Now shut up before I make you."

It didn't help that the line at Customs and Immigration was horrendously long, the airline had lost one of Dean's suitcase ("Goddammit, that was the one with the extra rock salt, too!"), and the cab ride to Godric's Hollow took about three hours, which meant the cabbie wanted a ridiculously large tip, which meant that they had absolutely no money at the moment, which meant Dean was not a happy camper.

Sam could feel a headache coming on.

"You chaps all right, then?" A grizzled old man stood before them, leaning heavily on a cane and chewing on a cigar. "Thought I'd check on ya—I'm Ian Morley. I own this place, and I likes to know me guests."

"Hi," Dean greeted the man, extending a hand to shake. "I'm Dean; this is Sam."

"Well I'll be damned." The man shook Dean's hand, then plunked down in an empty chair at their table. "We don't get too many Yanks around these parts, see. What're the two of you doing up here?"

"We're reporters from the _New York Times_," Sam responded promptly. "Heard you folks here have had some deaths recently." Morley's brows contracted sharply.

"Yeah, that we have, son, that we have. Those poor souls…it was a right shame, it was. I haven't seen nothing like this here for years."

"Something like this has happened before?" Sam asked, raising a brow at Dean. "We hadn't heard."

"Oh, yeah. Let's see…Halloween, sixteen years back, the Potter family was killed. It was odd—big explosion at their place, tons of green light…I lived on that street, and the noise woke me up. Never did find out what happened…the police thought it might've been some sort of electrical fire, but I haven't never seen nothing like it. There was a terrible, howling noise, and when I went out there to take a look…the house was just…it was just _gone. _There wasn't no fire, neither…just a bit of charred ground, some wreckage. That was horrible…they had a little son, not more'n a year old. 'round these parts, that was big news."

"Did you ever see anything strange before that?" Dean asked, gazing at the man intently. "Storms, sick livestock? Did the family complain about electrical problems…flickering lights, maybe?" Morley snorted.

"I don't know nothing about livestock, and as I recall the weather was fine. Didn't know the Potters too well, actually. They were quiet folk, didn't socialize with the rest of us much. They always had the oddest people wearin' cloaks duckin' in and out of their house; there was this bloke with the loudest motorbike on the planet always popping in."

"Hm." Sam half-shrugged at Dean, puzzled. "Maybe we'll mention that in the article."

"About these recent deaths," Dean said abruptly, "do you have any theories?"

"Nah. It's scary, though—it's gotta be murder, hasn't it? It seems like locks don't keep the blighter out, and whoever it is good at what he does. I don't fancy wandering around the streets at night when someone like that is prowlin' about."

"Don't blame you," Dean said, smiling easily. "Look, we're gonna be doing some snooping. You wouldn't happen to be able to tell us where the victims lived, would you?"

"And the Potters," Sam cut in. "We'll want to look around there, too."

"Eh…I s'pose I can help you lads out. Let me get paper and pen; I'll write 'em down for you." Stiffly, Morley got to his feet and hobbled away.

"Weird," Sam said quietly. "Sounds like this place is a supernatural magnet."

"How do we know the Potter thing wasn't some sort of freak accident? I mean, it was years ago. It's not necessarily tied to whatever's going on now," Dean pointed out.

"C'mon, Dean. An electrical fire with no flames? Green light? What the hell kind of 'freak accident' is that?"

"Ok, good point."

"Trust me, if there's weird stuff going on in this town, it's probably at least connected with these deaths. What if it's some sort of malevolent spirit—it hibernates for years, then comes out again to do it's dirty work?"

"Well, if it is, it's changed it's tune. I didn't read anything in the article about exploding houses, Sam." Dean sighed wearily. "_God _I'm tired. It's only six friggin' thirty—how is it _possible _I'm this tired?"

"The jetlag's gonna be rough. You _know _that, and if I could remind you _again_, this was your whole stupid idea in the first place."

"For the last time, Sam, _shut up about that._"

"Ah, here we are." Ian Morley was back, this time bearing a sheet of notebook paper. "Got you two boys the addresses, though I don't know what you'll find. As far as I know, everything but the Potter's old place is a crime scene."

"They rebuilt it?" Sam asked, sending Dean a pointed look.

"Yeah, just two years ago, matter of fact. Took 'em long enough, that's for sure. No one's moved in yet."

"Thanks, Mr. Morley. We really appreciate this," Sam said in his typically sincere way.

"Ah now, I insist—call me Ian."

"Thanks, Ian," Dean said. "You wouldn't happen to have a bar in this town, would you?"

"Just down the road. Take it easy, lads."

"Will do, sir."

And with that, Dean hopped to his feet and headed for the door. Sam, sighing irritably and waving at Ian, followed.

--

"Ok, that was pointless."

Dean winced at Sam.

"Tell me about it. Seems like Morley is the only one willing to talk, huh?"

It had been two days since they'd first arrived, but Ian Morley's information was the most helpful they'd received so far. They'd visited both the Banks and Hargrove residences, which were, as Ian had said, crime scenes. Caution tape had never stopped the Winchesters before, and they'd had no problem ducking under it, picking a couple of locks, and strolling right in. They didn't _find _anything, though. The homemade EMF device wasn't picking up a thing, there wasn't a trace of sulfur or anything at all otherworldly, Sam wasn't having any creepy visions, and things were, in general, normal.

The townsfolk didn't help, either. Not only were they pretty unfriendly (maybe strangers made them nervous after the murders), they refused to be of any help whatsoever. Sam and Dean had just come from dinner at the restaurant Marianne Wilkins had owned—Marianne's—and received a rather chilly welcome.

"We've already had enough reporters poking their noses where they most certainly don't belong around here," a haughty waitress had informed them. "I won't answer anymore questions."

"What do the Americans want with us?" a man seated near them had demanded. "There's enough news in British papers without you adding to it!"

"You young louts should be ashamed of yourselves!" piped up a frail old woman. "Haven't we all suffered enough? Go on, get out with you!"

Yes, things were getting rather difficult.

"I don't know," Dean sighed. "Maybe I was wrong; maybe this isn't our kinda gig."

"I don't think that's it," Sam said, frowning. "Ok, look, we haven't checked out the Potter place yet. Why don't we head over there tonight?"

"Yeah, ok. I'm willing to give it a shot. If we're not careful, someone else could get hurt real soon."

"Let's get the rock salt, then."

"You got it, dude."

The two brothers headed up the stairs of the inn, grabbed the rock salt, guns, and a Bible (just in case), along with Ian's list of addresses. The Potter's house was listed at number seven, Half Moon Avenue, and wasn't too far from the inn. Five minutes of walking, and they were there.

The house was on the small side and had heavy curtains drawn across all the windows. Nothing seemed incredibly unusual about it, but you never could tell.

"We going in?" Sam asked, staring uneasily at the place.

"Course we are." Dean shouldered his shotgun, glanced around to make sure no one was peering out the window of a nearby house, and marched up the front path.

Dean worked some magic with his credit card on the lock while Sam peered around, his apprehension growing by the second.

"I don't like it here," he murmured.

"It's just a house," Dean said dismissively. "And not a very scary one. Best part is, no one lives here, so we don't have to worry about anyone barging in on us."

"I guess."

"Ugh—stubborn son of a—ah, there we go!" The door swung open, and Dean triumphantly waved his credit card around. "C'mon Sam, we're in." The pair walked cautiously through the door, and Dean had just begun to close it when Sam's eyesight blurred and his head began to throb.

Crap. Another damn vision.

A woman with bright red hair was standing with her back to a crib, terrified.

_Please, not Harry, please not Harry! Take me instead…_

A tall, pale, deadly looking man was advancing on her.

_Stand aside, girl._

_No, not Harry, please! _The man sneered, raised a wooden stick.

_Avada Kedavra!_

A flash of green light.

The woman fell to the side, and she was dead… A baby was wailing…

"Sam?"

"What the—Dean." Sam shook his head rapidly, rubbing his temples and wincing. "God, I'm sorry—I just…I had another vision."

"Yeah?" Dean stared at his brother, frowning. "What was it?"

"These people…the ones who lived here. It was murder."

"_What?_"

"Yeah. I don't know _how_, though. The guy…the murderer…he yelled something at the woman in a different language…sound Aramaic, maybe."

"Uh-huh." Dean gripped his shotgun more tightly. "Well, whatever happened here, it wasn't good. Let's just check this place out. You're right, it's creepy as hell."

Nervously, the two brothers padded around the empty first floor, pausing only at the kitchen.

"That's weird," Dean said, nodding at one of the counters. A sack was sitting there, and when they sifted through it, they found bottles of some sort of beer, rolls, peanut butter, some fruit…

"You don't think anyone…_lives _here?" Sam asked quietly, looking up to meet his brother's gaze.

"No…no, 'course not. Let's just check the second floor and scram, okay, Sammy?"

"Sounds like a plan to me."

They headed for the stairs, Dean brandishing the EMF device. They'd almost reached the top when it went haywire, the red lights flashing frantically.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean drew to a halt at the top step. "We got something here, Sam."

"God, look at that. Have you ever seen it do that?" The lights flashed in growing intensity, the thing beeped frantically and then—

It just plain died with an odd fizzing noise, the lights flickering out abruptly.

"Aw, man—whatever it was, look, it fried the system! This is _big_, Sam."

"Jesus."

For a moment, all the Winchesters could do was stare hopelessly at the device before Dean resolutely shoved it into his jacket pocket and, treading carefully, made it to the landing.

"Let's be quiet. Whatever's up here, it's definitely supernatural, and it's definitely powerful enough to make me want to shut up."

"Agreed," Sam gulped. As softly as they could, the boys headed off down the hall, pausing to peer through doorways.

Quite abruptly, Sam stopped in front of one, cocking his head to listen. His eyes widened, and he motioned Dean over to where he was standing, pressing a finger to his lips to indicate absolute silence. Eyeing his brother nervously, Dean leaned forward, ear pressed close to the closed door.

"…don't know what to do," a low, male voice was saying. "I don't want to draw any more attention, but this is ridiculous. The deaths…we should've stopped those."

"Don't blame yourself," a girl's voice snapped. "We got here as fast as we could, it's not our fault the Death Eaters got here first."

"She's right, mate," said a third voice, this one also male. "We've got to do what we can as fast as we can. At least we know they were here."

"I suppose you're right." A pause. "Do you think there's a Horcrux here?"

"If there is, it's bound to be at this house, isn't it? I mean…" The voice faded as Dean stepped back from the door, frowning at the faint light that glowed beneath the crack.

"I don't believe this," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Sam, there's a couple of stupid kids in there!"

"Dean, be careful. We don't know what—"

"To hell with being careful! There's something in this house so powerful the damned EMF reader about exploded, and there's _kids _camping out in here, probably on some stupid dare—we don't need any more deaths!"

"Dean, keep your voice down, I think they—"

But Dean, never one for common sense, pounded on the door.

"Hey, you in there! Open the hell up!"

_Uh-oh, _Sam thought, for some reason extremely nervous. _Here we go…_

The door cracked open and a young girl, maybe seventeen years old, with a heedful of dark curly hair, peered out, a gnarled wooden stick clutched in her fist. Her eyes widened as she took in Sam, Dean, and their shotguns.

"Ok, party's over," Dean said gruffly, folding his arms. "You and your friends get the hell out of here before—"

"Hermione?" one of the male voice called. "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you what's going on!" Dean said loudly. "What's going on is that you're trespassing, not to mention the fact that it's dangerous. You got five seconds to haul ass before I call the cops." The girl's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Sam saw it coming before Dean did.

"Dean—get back—!"

"_Stupefy!" _the girl yelled, pointing the stick at Dean. There was a flash of red light, and Dean crumpled to the ground.

"Hey!" Sam yelled, staring at the girl in horror. She turned on him, stick raised, and he did the first thing he could think of.

He fired the gun at her.

A chunk of rock salt hit her in the leg, and she screamed in pain—but didn't disappear into thin air as Sam was used to. She just hopped around on one foot, banging into the door and screeching, while the people in the room yelled,

"Hermione!"

Before he could have any time to reflect on the fact that a girl screaming Latin with enough power in her to take down his brother was _not _an evil spirit of some sort, a furious, redheaded kid the same height as Sam had flung the door open, spotted him, and drawn out his _own _stick.

"_Stupey!" _the kid hollered. Another flash of red light—and then Sam's world went black.

**A/N: **Ah, I do love Ron. Pooor Sam, that's all I have to say. Ron is not a happy camper.


	3. Rock Salt Won't Work On These Suckers

_Disclaimer:_

Nope, not mine.

**_ooo_**

**Chapter Two:**

**Rock Salt Won't Work On These Suckers **

Sam's wrists felt like they were on fire.

He struggled to open his eyes, fighting his way to the world of the living as best he could. When he glanced down at his wrists, he could see thin cords wrapped tightly around them, tied with inhuman precision, and when he managed to look even _further _down, he found that the lower half of his body was tied up as well.

Shit.

This was going to be a hell of a night.

"I'm not as good with healing spells as Madam Pomfrey," one of the male voices was saying, "but let me at least look at it, ok?"

"What in the name of Merlin was it he shot me with? It didn't seem to be a bullet."

"I think it's _salt_," another male voice said in apparent disgust. "Blimey, look at the size of this thing!"

"Here, Hermione, I think it broke your ankle. I can bind it…I read up on those sorts of charms this summer. Hold still, all right?"

"He broke her _ankle? _That bloke better hope he never wakes up—I'll strangle him, I swear to Merlin I will!" He paused briefly. "They're not Death Eaters, are they?"

"Of course they're not. They're Muggles; why else would they have guns?"

"Well, what the bloody hell are Muggles doing poking around this house and yelling at _us _about danger for? They're not those police blokes, right?"

"Of course not. Didn't you hear him, he said—ouch! Careful, Harry."

"Excuse me," Dean's voice said very loudly from Sam's left, "but just what the hell is going on?"

"Dean?" Sam said frantically, surprised to find his voice worked. "Dean, where are you?"

"Right here, Sammy," his brother's voice said calmly. "I've been listening to these three for a good fifteen minutes. Are you telling me rock salt won't work on these suckers?"

"Well, I tried—"

"Oi!" Suddenly, Sam was hauled upright by his collar, and the same redheaded kid who'd knocked him out was shoving him up against the wall. "What did you think you were playing at, you git?"

"I—_ouch—"_

"Hey, Red, let go of my brother!" Dean's voice called, obviously attempting to sound intimidating.

"Yeah, right," the kid said over his shoulder. "D'you know what he did to her?"

"Ron, I'll be quite all right after tonight. I think with Harry's help my ankle will heal fairly well."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," the kid—Ron, Sam supposed he was called—informed the girl. "He still shot at you with the…the shot-thingie."

"I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding."

"Oh…" Sam stared as Ron's ears turned red, and he scowled. "All _right._" Unceremoniously, he dropped Sam on the ground, snorting in a self-satisfied sort of way when Sam groaned at the sudden impact.

"Well, time to find out _what _this misunderstanding is all about." There were heavy footsteps, and then Sam was staring up into the face of a kid with messy black hair, a strange scar on his forehead, and green eyes framed behind round glasses. "If I untie you," the kid said softly, "you have to promise you won't run."

"Uh…all right," Sam managed. "I swear I won't."

"Good." The kid raised a stick and flicked it wordlessly. Sam glanced down, suppressing a gasp—the ropes were _gone._

He sat up, rubbing his raw wrists, as the kid turned to Dean. "What about you?" he asked. "Will you run if I untie you?"

"Nah, kid, I'll just beat the frigging hell out of you."

"Dean, shut up," Sam directed tiredly. "We're not in charge here, if you haven't gotten the memo yet."

"Yeah, enough of the smartarse remarks!" piped up Ron.

"Ron, stop it," the girl directed. Sam squinted at her; she was leaning against the door, her ankle bound tightly in white bandages, her dark frizzy hair now tied back in a bun.

"Look, aren't you tired of the bloke yet? It's his own fault he—"

"Ok," said the kid with the glasses and black hair in a very loud voice, "you—Dean—whatever your name is—will you run if I untie you?"

"Nope."

"Can I count on that?"

"Sure, why not?"

The kid sighed wearily. "He sounds like Malfoy," he informed his comrades as he flicked the stick, both of whom laughed outright. Dean rubbed his wrists irritably, then stood, pushing past the kid and walking over to sit down next to his brother.

"You doing ok, Sammy?"

"It's Sam."

"I'll take that as a, 'Yes, best big brother in the world, I am. How are you?'"

"Ok, that's enough." The kid with the glasses sat down cross-legged on the floor, peering at the both of them. Ron sauntered over and sat down next to his friend, and the girl hopped her way over as well, looking utterly serious.

"Ok," Dean said, scowling. "What the hell is going on?"

"First of all," the kid with the glasses said, ignoring him, "Hermione here—" He indicated the girl. "—is going to have to modify your memories when we're through, but right now we need you to tell us why you were in this house. Okay?"

"Do _what _to our memories?" Dean demanded, folding his arms and looking surly. "Look, how 'bout this: just who are you freaks, and what are you controlling?"

"Controlling?" Ron asked blankly, staring at Dean as if he were insane. "We're not controlling _anything_."

"Oh, please. You think I haven't seen this a hundred times before? What sort of demon have you got your hands on?"

All three kids stared wordlessly at each other, looking puzzled.

"We don't know anything about a demon," the girl—Hermione—said carefully, eyeing Dean in some interest. "You _are _a Muggle, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry, I don't speak crazy. Could you try that in English? Ow—God_dammit, _Sam!" Dean rubbed his side ruefully where Sam had hit him.

"Stop antagonizing them!" Sam hissed under his breath. "Are you forgetting what happened _last _time you did that?"

"You'd do well to listen to your brother," the girl informed Dean frostily, eyes glinting dangerously.

"Look, we haven't got all night," Ron said impatiently. "Can't we just call this a couple of Muggle Yanks gone mental, modify their memories, and get on with our lives?"

"No," the kid who seemed to be the one in charge said. "We have to tie up all the loose ends. So—Dean, Sam." He turned back to them. "Care to share?"

"Well…" Sam sighed, then shrugged. These kids obviously had some sort of power, he wasn't going to shock them by spilling family secrets. "We're Hunters."

"Hunters?" Now, it was their turn to look puzzled.

"Yeah, Hunters," Dean announced, looking pleased that the kids weren't all-knowing. "We go around and get rid of supernatural stuff. Poltergeists. Demons. Evil spirits. Crap like that."

"You do?" Hermione sounded surprised. "But I thought—how could Muggles _know _about things like that, though? I thought the Ministry handled…" She paused. "Wait—you're American. Oh, I knew it! The stupid government over there...!"

"Uh, Hermione? What's wrong with the government?" Ron asked, peering at her.

"Don't you pay _any _attention to the news, Ron? The American President of Magic is a complete idiot—they don't monitor things like we do, they don't keep tabs on spirits hardly at all, and since dragons and Giants and the like aren't indigenous in North America, generally they don't have too much of a problem…Of course, _they're _the ones who have Windegos—Merlin knows why they haven't properly restrained the population yet…"

"Wait—you people are _organized_?" Dean stared at Hermione in faint horror. "What in—"

"This is all very nice and all," said the bespectacled kid, "but you still haven't answered why you're here."

"Oh, right. Sorry," Sam said, elbowing Dean to get him to shut up again. "Listen, we're Hunters, right, that's our job. We go and help people who're being attacked or harassed or potentially harmed by supernatural things, and we read about this town in the newspaper. Those deaths—they sounded like our kind of thing, you know?"

"Ah."

"Yeah, and so we've talked to this guy called Ian Morley and he told us about the deaths and about something else odd that had happened a long time ago. Something…something _happened _in this place, where this house is. A family was killed…" He trailed off as the three exchanged significant glances. "You don't have anything to do with all of this, do you?" he asked suspiciously.

"In a way we do." The kid with the glasses sighed. "Okay, look. It's nice you want to help here, under any other circumstances I'm sure it'd be appreciated but—listen, you're in over your heads, blokes. We're handling this."

"Not very well," Dean muttered.

"As well as we can," the kid said tightly, looking peeved. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"What exactly _are _you?" Dean asked, eyeing them. "If you're not controlling something, how are you harnessing the power?"

"You use Latin," Sam observed. "Where did you learn all this?" The three exchanged glances again, then Hermione nodded, shrugging.

"School," she said simply. They stared at her, and she smiled. "I'm a witch," she said point-blank, then indicated the two boys. "They're wizards. We can do magic—and no, we're not _harnessing _it. We were born with it, and we attend—_used _to attend—a school that taught us how to control our power."

"The EMF device going psycho," Dean whispered. "That was _you_?"

"I suppose."

"Hell," he breathed. "Ok, so wait—you use _spells_?"

"Of course we do," Ron said, getting even more impatient. "Look, like I say, we have no time for this, not tonight. _We're _the ones who can save lives, you two are just in the way." Dean was not used to being told he was 'in the way,' and as such got quite offended.

"Look," he said, glowering at Ron, "we came here to do something, and some kid—all-powerful or _not_—is not getting in our way! Whatever it is you're trying to stop, we can help! We were trained and _raised _for this, and we know what we're doing."

"I think it'd be best if you went home," Hermione said sagely. "Ron's right, you'll only be in the way here." Ron blinked at her.

"Say that again!"

"Say what?"

"'You _know _what! It's the only time you've ever said it in your life!"

"What, 'Ron's right'?"

"HAH! Somebody owl the _Prophet_, Hermione actually admitted I was right!"

"Please, you two. Now is _not _the time." The leader turned to Sam and Dean. "Maybe if we explain things, that might convince you two to leave, yes?"

"I doubt it," Sam admitted. "But give it a try."

"My name is Harry Potter," the kid introduced himself. Sam and Dean exchanged significant glances. _Potter. _"This is Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger."

"Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean."

"We figured," Ron muttered under his breath bad-temperedly.

"Nice to meet you," Hermione cut in, rolling her eyes. "I'm sorry about Stupefying you, but I was afraid you'd call the police."

"Um—sorry about…" Sam gestured to her ankle. "You know."

"It's quite all right."

"_Anyways,_" Harry cut in, running a hand through his hair in apparent weariness, "this is all very complicated, and I'm not sure I want to go into details when your memories are just going to be modified anyways—"

"Who says we're letting you modify our memories?" Dean demanded, still not entirely happy. "Look, we didn't come to England for vacation, ok?"

"I'm afraid it's not up to you if we modify your memories or not," Hermione said simply. "There are more important things at stake here." She eyed Dean icily and then nodded at Harry to continue, propping her chin in her hands.

"Ok then," Harry said, not without some exasperation. "You heard about what happened to my parents sixteen years back, but—"

"Yeah, about that. How'd you survive? Morley said—"

"Look, do you want to hear this or not?" Ron demanded, scowling even more furiously than before at Dean.

"All right, all right. Sorry."

"Ok, so, there's this evil wizard, and his name is Voldemort," Harry continued. Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam as Ron gulped audibly and ran a hand through his hair shakily. "He's the _most _evil wizard who's ever lived, and maybe the most powerful. He's killed hundreds upon hundreds of innocents, and on that night that he came to Godric's Hollow to murder my parents I was only a year old. He used the Killing Curse—"

"Would that be _Avada Kedavra_?" Sam inquired in some interest.

"Yes," Harry said, surprised. He met Sam's eyes. "How did you know that?"

"I'll explain later," Sam said, shrugging. "Sorry; go on."

"Right…well, anyways, he used the Killing Curse and my mum died saving me. When he tried to kill me, the curse rebounded and hit him, and the gist of it is he was reduced to something not-quite-dead, but not alive either. I was taken to live with my mother's sister and her husband and cousin and…well, let's say I didn't have the best of upbringings. I was pretty miserable until I went to Hogwarts, which is the magic school. You go there when you're eleven…" Harry paused, sighing. "Look, it's complicated, all right? The point is this Voldemort wizard split his soul into seven pieces and now he's back and he's killing again and last year the only man who even had a chance of stopping him was murdered. It's up to me now, and I'm the one who ultimately has to defeat him. Not the Ministry of Magic, not the Order of the Phoenix, and certainly not a pair of well-intentioned Muggles."

"And we can't help?" Dean asked quietly.

"No. I'm sorry but—no. Now, Hermione, if you would, please—" Hermione nodded grimly, then picked up her wand.

And then Sam's vision blurred _again,_ and the damned throbbing started up in his temples.

A _thing _was advancing on Hermione, who was screaming spells or something, waving the stick—_wand, _the word came to him in a flash.

The thing was snarling, it was hairy and gruesome…it was a _werewolf. _At last, something Sam recognized.

Dean burst through the door, followed by Ron, who threw himself at the werewolf…Dean drew out his gun, shot the werewolf…a figure drew up behind him, Dean didn't see—there was a cruel, high maniacal cackling—there was a flash of green light and Dean was on the ground, he was dead…

He could hear voices outside of the vision, but they sounded faint, distant…his head was on fire, it was going to explode—

"Sam—_Sammy_!"

"What's wrong with him? Why's he shaking like that?"

"Is there anything we can do? Oh Merlin, he's passing out…"

And then, for the second time in two hours, Sam Winchester's world went black.

**_ooo_**

Reviews are like air. Without them, I die.

Well, sort of. xD Do let me know what you think, constructive critiscm GREATLY appreciated!


	4. Similarities All Around

**Do You Believe in Magic?**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except the words.

**_A/N_: **Ok, so I just watched the Season One Supernatural finale and the first ep of Season Two and ooooh boy. Yes, that is about all I can manage on THAT subject. Thanks so much to all who reviewed last update, your feedback totally made my day and inspired me to churn out another chapter! This one's a bit shorter than the first two and it's more of a getting-to-know-you filler chapter where the boys and the trio find out key stuff about each other, but I promise chapter four will be a little more exciting. Please read and be sure to drop me a line and let me know what you think (invisible cookies to all who review...::cough::)!

_**ooo**_

**Chapter Three:**

**Similarities All Around**

Dean's mood had just gone from bad to worse.

This night couldn't have gotten any freakier if the Dark Lord Voldie-thing barged in and started going on a killing spree. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard about witches and wizards, it was just that he'd been led to believe that they had, as a people, been wiped out ages ago. It sounded as if there were large groups of them living all over the world, they had systems of _government, _they sent their kids to school—

It was sort of overwhelming.

He was sure the Potter kid hadn't told them even half of what was really going on, and that annoyed him. Dean didn't operate on a need-to-know basis; he liked having all the details on his terms, whether or not anyone else had a problem with that. The thing was, though, Sammy had been right. They weren't in charge—these seventeen-year-old kids were powerful enough to bust his EMF reader, knock him unconscious with a single spell, and wipe his memory if they saw fit.

Dammit, he _knew _there was something wrong with this village!

And now, to add to all that, Sam was passed-out on the floor, after having one of those damn Haley Joel moments, no doubt, and Dean had no idea what to do.

Exhausted, he let his head fall to his hands, but jumped, startled, when someone put a hand on his shoulder.

"Dean?" Hermione's voice asked quietly. "Do you mind if I use a spell to wake Sam up?" He glanced at her briefly, then shrugged half-heartedly.

"Thanks," he muttered. She nodded, then slid over to his brother, pulled out the stick-thing, and put it to Sam's temple.

"_Ennervate,_" she murmured. Sam sat up fast, gasping, his eyes wide-open.

"Dean!" he screamed. "_Dean!_" Dean scrambled to his feet and rushed to his brother, kneeling and putting a comforting arm across his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione staring over at Harry pointedly; the kid rubbed the scar on his forehead, frowning at Sam.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean soothed. "It's all right, I'm right here. You're fine, ok? Fine."

"Werewolf—the—you—dead!" Sam closed his eyes and drew a long, rattling breath. "Oh God."

"What werewolf?" Ron asked, squinting at Sam in some bemusement. "What's he on about?" Dean opened his mouth to tell the kid to shut up, but Hermione beat him to it.

"Oh, _stop _it, Ron, can't you see he's upset?" she asked crossly, folding her arms as she leant against a wall.

"What did you see, Sam?" Dean asked, concern for his brother outweighing annoyance with Ron.

"It was bad," Sam murmured, calming down a bit. "There was a werewolf, and this…" He shuddered. "…this _awful _laugh, high and cold and just…_God. _And whatever it was it…" He stared at Dean in some horror, then shook his head, unable to continue.

"Ok, what's going on?" Dean glanced up to see Harry Potter standing before them, looking puzzled. "What's all this about a werewolf?"

"Kid, this is not the—"

"No, Dean, this concerns them, too." Sam sighed shakily, then made to explain. "I…I have...visions. I see or dream about things before they happen and they always come true unless I stop them." Hermione drew a sharp breath.

"_Oh_," she breathed. "I knew there was something about you!"

"What?" Ron demanded, looking from Sam to Hermione in some suspicion.

"Don't you remember, we learned about this in Divination! It's possible for Muggles to acquire the Sight!" Hermione snorted. "Of course, I was skeptical at the time since it was Trewlaney who said it, but—"

"It is?" Harry stared at Sam. "When did this start, Sam?"

"A while ago," Sam said shortly. "I can't really pin it down…" Hermione was now regarding him eagerly, looking thoroughly intrigued.

"I hope you don't mind," she said carefully, "but could I ask…what happened to you?"

"What?" Sam blinked at her.

"Well, I thought it was odd you know so much about the supernatural and that you seem so determined to hunt things down, but this makes things even more complicated." She eyed him. "The general rule is that for a Muggle to obtain Sight, or psychic tendencies, something highly personal on a supernatural level must have happened to them. It's very rare that a Muggle is born psychic."

"How do you _remember _this?" Ron asked, staring at her in some astonishment. "You didn't even last a month in Trewlaney's class…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

"We've been through this, Ron; I _listen._" She sighed. "I'm sorry, Sam. Would you mind telling us, or is it…too personal?"

"Damn right it's personal," Dean snapped, but Sam shook his head.

"No, it's all right." He met Hermione's inquisitive gaze. "When I was six months old, a…demon…came into my room and it killed my mother. Pinned her to the ceiling, and then set the house on fire."

"My dad and the two of us survived," Dean put in quietly. "And ever since, it's been Dad's mission to hunt down the thing that killed Mom and destroy it. Along the way, we go after every other evil bastard in our path." There was a long silence, and then Hermione sighed.

"I'm so sorry," she offered quietly. "That must have been terrible for you."

"Yeah, well," Dean said gruffly. "We manage."

"So, this demon," Ron said seriously, "did you ever find out what it was up to?"

"No. We just know we weren't the only ones."

"Blimey…" Ron shook his head. "I've heard stories but I've never actually met anyone…pins its victims to the ceilings, eh? That doesn't sound familiar."

"I haven't read anything about it," Hermione admitted. "Ron would know most about something like that…Harry?"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "I haven't heard anything about that sort of demon, and you're right, Ron'd probably be the one who could say anything about it…"

"Why?" Sam asked curiously, momentarily forgetting the vision. "I thought you all went to the same school."

"Well, yes, we did," Hermione agreed. "But I'm a Muggle-born and Harry told you his aunt and uncle brought him up."

"Ok, I'm sorry, but what in the name of God is a _Muggle?_" Dean asked, running a hand over his face tiredly.

"Muggles are non-magic people," Ron responded promptly. "Like you."

"All right, so wait…how come you're a witch then?" Dean asked Hermione, frowning. "If your parents are Muggles…?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but I believe my great-great-grandfather might have been a wizard," Hermione responded, shrugging.

"And your parents were magic?" Dean asked Harry. Harry nodded.

"Yeah, but my mum was Muggle-born as well, and her sister—my aunt—is no witch. So neither Hermione or I had any idea what we were until we were eleven and we got the letters inviting us to school, but Ron's pureblood and grew up knowing about wizarding stuff his entire life."

"Ok, so you people don't know anything about this demon thing either?" Dean scowled. "Just friggin' great."

"Right, now that we've cleared _that _up…Let's back-up for a second, here, Sam. You have visions and you saw a werewolf doing _what_?" Ron asked, frowning.

"It attacked Hermione," Sam said, shrugging. "And, um…" He paused, rubbing his head and wincing. "…You and Dean came through the door next and you jumped at the werewolf, Ron, and then the…the laugh—" Sam cradled his head in his hands. "Oh _God. _Dean, something killed…I mean, you _died_."

"Aw—that's the _second _time you've seen me…well, you know !" Dean cried, jumping to his feet. "Jesus! When is this supposed to happen, Sammy?"

"I have no clue. I just know that it does." Sam sighed miserably. "What're we supposed to do?"

"It attacks Hermione?" Ron asked in a very low, quiet sort of voice.

"Yes," Sam said simply, feeling more exhausted than he had in months.

"Bloody hell." Ron, like Dean, jumped to his feet, shoving his hands into the pockets of what Sam supposed were robes. "You're _sure _you don't know when this is going to happen?"

"Positive."

"You know," Hermione said, her eyes meeting Harry's again, "this sounds very familiar, wouldn't you say, Harry?"

"Hermione, this is different. You know I'm no Seer."

"I know." Hermione met Sam's eyes. "Two years ago, Harry started having dreams and sometimes visions about what V—Voldemort was doing…it sounds a bit like what you're going through."

"Well then," Sam said, raising a brow at Harry. "You get headaches when it happens?"

"Yeah," Harry said slowly, meeting Sam's eyes. "Horrible ones. I still have the pain, right here in my scar, but the visions have stopped for the most part. Voldemort found a way to block me…but, I mean, when I saw these things, it was like I was _him_."

"Hm." Sam shrugged. "I'm never involved in them. It's like I'm watching a movie or something."

"Still, I think there might be some correlation." Hermione eyed Sam. "You said that you weren't the only one this demon attacked? And…it came into _your _nursery?"

"And his mother died saving him," Harry said quietly, eyes boring into Sam's.

"Or at least she was going to try to," Sam agreed.

"I'll do some research," Hermione said firmly. "We know the scar Harry got from the curse binds him to Voldemort and that when Voldemort tried to kill him he passed on some…powers…to Harry. Maybe things work similarly in the demon world."

"I've never heard of it," Sam said, "but I'd be interested in helping you."

"Oh, I don't believe this," Dean groaned, pacing the room agitatedly. "Look—college boy, know-it-all witch-girl—we don't have _time _for the library crap! Did you miss the part with the werewolf? Me dying?"

"Yeah!" Ron piped up as he stalked past Dean anxiously (he was pacing the room too). "Shouldn't we put up wards or something? Go out and find the werewolf?" He eyed Dean. "Say, mate, just what can those Muggle shot-thingies of yours do?"

"Shot-_gun, _kid. A silver bullet to the heart, works like a charm. Speaking of charms…" Dean gestured to Ron. "What can _you _guys do? Can you wave those stick things and turn the wolves back to humans?"

"Not a stick, a _wand_. And yeah, I think there's a spell, it's pretty complex though—" Ron broke off as the room burst into laughter. "Oi!"

"I _never _thought I'd meet anyone as rude as Ron," Hermione managed between giggles, "but oh Merlin…"

"They could be twins!" Sam hooted. "Well, except for how they look and talk and the fact that Dean's dwarfed by Ron, but—"

"Hey!" Dean folded his arms irritably. "Me'n this kid are _nothing _alike."

"Damn straight," Ron put in. "Fancy comparing some nutter Muggle Yank to _me!_"

"Yeah, fancy that, you psycho, wand-waving little—"

"All right, all right, that's _enough_!" Harry cut in, laughter subsiding a little as Ron drew out his wand, ears bright red. "C'mon, Ron we were just taking the mickey out of the pair of you."

"Hmph," Ron muttered, turning away from Dean and going to sit by Hermione.

"Look, you were right before. We should be thinking about how to deal with the vision," Sam said hastily in an effort to calm the waters (Dean was looking murderous).

"All right, so we know it was a werewolf," Dean said, running a hand through his hair. "That means it's gonna have to be full moon."

"Not necessarily," Harry said grimly.

"Of course necessarily. What sort of werewolf comes out when it's _not _full moon?"

"The worst kind," Ron said, now looking a bit perturbed. "Are you sure it was…in wolf form?"

"Positive," Sam said. "Definitely hairy and ugly."

"And you said you heard laughter?" Harry asked, rubbing his scar nervously.

"Yeah…and then there was this green light and…" Sam trailed off. "It hit Dean." Dean's hand automatically dropped to his pistol, and he resumed his pacing.

"There's no need to panic yet," Hermione said calmly. "If you're sure it was in werewolf form, then we have some time. Next full moon is in two days."

"What do we do until then?" Sam asked, his eyes meeting hers.

"We wait." She rubbed her broken ankle, wincing a bit. "We wait, and we plan."

Dean paused by the window, leaning against the frame and folding his arms. If Sam hadn't known any better, he could've sworn the look on his brother's face was fear.


	5. Checkmate

**_Disclaimer: _**As always, I own nothing but the words.

**_A/N: _**Ok, here's chapter four. Sorry for not updating sooner--I got pretty sick for about a week and my writing abilites deserted me, and I've been spending a long time catching up on all my missed schoolwork. And oh my God, _July 21st. Deathly Hallows. _I think just knowing the DATE gave me a fit of inspiration--I cannot WAIT. :cough: So, anyways, this chapter, as promised, is a bit more action-packed, but it didn't turn out quite how I'd planned. Read, review, and (maybe) enjoy!

**_ooo_**

**Chapter Four:**

**Checkmate**

Godric's Hollow's library was small, but it was still packed with books. Hermione, who apparently had already frequented the place quite a few times and seemed to know her way around, led Sam to a table and dumped the contents of her rather large bag out onto it.

"I'm so glad you've experience researching," she confided, "and _especially _with computers. I have to say I left the Muggle world before I learned how to use one properly, but my mum tells me the internet is insanely useful."

"It is," Sam assured her, grinning. "I bet we'll find tons of information…uh, just what is it we're looking for, again?"

"Well…" Hermione glanced about nervously, obviously wary they'd be overheard, then lowered her voice. "…the Death Eaters were here for a reason, and I've been trying to find out why. It's possible there's a Horcrux here, and we're trying to figure out where Voldemort might've hid it. And then of course we've got to be thinking about that demon of yours, what it could mean that you've been getting these visions. You're doing us a favor; this is the least we can do."

"I don't know if we'll be much help," Sam said honestly. "You three seem to have things pretty under control."

"Still," Hermione sighed, "it doesn't hurt to have back-up, and there's no _way _we can get the Order involved now, they'd only send us home…" Tiredly, she heaved a large book entitled _Wanderings With Werewolves _by Gilderoy Lockhart forward, and added, "The scenario in here's a complete joke, but there is rather useful information about werewolves; at least we can brush up on our facts." Sam grinned and pulled his dad's journal out of his pocket.

"This should help too." Hermione took it curiously, and as she began perusing it, Sam yawned and let his head fall to his hands—it had been a long night.

He and Dean had stayed talking with Harry, Ron, and Hermione until quite early into the morning before they'd agreed to meet again after they'd all gotten some sleep. After Sam's vision, the three kids couldn't exactly wipe their memories and throw them out—the future didn't lie, and as Dean shooting the werewolf seemed likely to have saved Hermione, Ron and Harry, at least,

weren't taking the chance.

The only thing that seemed to make sense was to join forces, though Ron agreed to this a bit grudgingly and Dean had not yet run out of snarky comments for the lot of them.

Hesitantly but eventually, the three kids spilled apparently top-secret information to the Winchesters, detailing various ways the wizarding world worked and tons of stuff about the adventures they'd had throughout the past seven years. Sam had to admit, Harry had had just as hard a life as he and Dean had, if not harder. He'd lost his parents, godfather, and sole protector before he even hit seventeen, and he'd faced evil countless times. Frankly, Sam thought Voldemort didn't seem to learn from his mistakes if he kept going after the kid and losing. Still though, Sam could identify with Harry—they both seemed to be cursed. Marked.

Chosen.

It was a little creepy, actually, almost as creepy as Max.

Grudgingly, Dean and Sam had opened up a little more, too, Sam explaining quietly about Jess (for some reason, Harry had had an odd, grimly satisfied look plastered on his face while that

particular story was being told) and Dean had told them about their training.

By the time they'd about talked themselves out, the Winchesters had made three new allies, and they were slowly beginning to develop a plan. They agreed to discuss things further in the morning, and then they'd temporarily parted ways.

Sam had woken up after only three hours of sleep and gone out to buy coffee for everybody while Dean re-loaded guns, then they'd headed back over to the Potter place.

When they'd walked in, Harry was sitting in the kitchen eating an apple and Hermione was lying on the hardwood floor, barking orders at Ron in a clipped, pained tone as he knelt next to her, wand to her ankle, a look of deep concentration etched on his face.

"_Immobulous_," he murmured (Sam figured this was to stop her from moving the ankle while he was trying to mend it) and then he muttered something else relatively unintelligible.

"_Ouch—_I think you've nearly got it," Hermione panted. "Merlin, I had no idea this was such a difficult spell. Madam Pomfrey does it in about three seconds, and it never hurts; I think she must numb it first—"

"_Resarcio Infractus!" _Ron said in more forceful tone, seeming to master a complicated wand movement but stumbling over the last word; Hermione grimaced with pain, face ghostly pale. "Are you okay? Damn, I knew I wouldn't be any good at this."

"I'd do it, but it's trickier if you perform it on yourself," Hermione said. "Harry, can't you try

again?"

"I wasn't doing any better than Ron, Hermione."

"I can't afford to have a broken ankle, not now! Ron, pronounce it right, _please." _Carefully, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "You can do it, I know you can. Just concentrate." He met her eyes and drew a deep breath.

"_Resarcio Infractus!" _Ron commanded, and white light burst from the tip of his wand, illuminating Hermione's ankle. There was a pause as everyone gaped at Ron, and Hermione stumbled tentatively to her feet. She turned to Ron and her entire face lit up almost as bright as the spell had.

"You did it!" she cried. "It's mended! Thank you so much!"

"No problem," Ron muttered, the tips of his ears going red. Harry snorted in slight amusement.

"Well done, mate." He waved a hand at the Winchesters, who had been standing off to the side, watching the scene in slight awe. "Hullo, you two. Is that coffee?"

"It is indeed," Dean agreed. "Morning, everyone."

"G'morning," Ron said gruffly, moving forward to accept the Styrofoam cup Sam offered him.

"Thank you, Sam," Hermione said, taking her own cup. "I have a feeling we'll need the caffeine."

"Yeah, this is gonna be one hell of a day," Dean managed through a yawn. "_God, _I'm tired…all right, so what's the plan?" Harry took his own cup of coffee from Sam and took a long sip before responding.

"Ah, Hermione was thinking she and Sam could hit the books at the library and research up on werewolves, demons, and maybe scrounge up some more info on the history of the town," he explained. "I can scout around in the Invisibility Cloak and see if I can locate where the Death Eaters are camped out—I've got a couple of leads, and it'll be less obvious if I go by myself."

"But what if you need backup?" Dean asked, raising a brow.

"I won't," Harry said shortly. "I'm not going far, and if worse comes to worse, I'll shoot up sparks that'll look like a fireworks display to any unsuspecting Muggle."

"And what're we supposed to do?" Dean asked grumpily, nodding to Ron and himself.

"Hold down the fort," Hermione suggested. "It'd actually be quite helpful if Ron could ward the house and it wouldn't hurt to put down some salt and angelica root, Dean." Surprisingly, Ron nodded agreeably.

"Yeah—but hey, you'll have Sam call Dean if you two need anything, right?" he asked, grinning at her.

"Of course," she said, nodding.

And so it had been a plan—Harry had gone off on his own, Ron and Dean remained at home, and Hermione and Sam were at the library, already buried in books.

Yeesh, they _were _going to need that caffeine.

"Oh, here's something interesting," Hermione said, interrupting Sam's reverie. "About demons, that is. Apparently Voldemort got quite a few of the more powerful ones on his side during the last war—they possessed a lot of Muggles and Death Eaters, made them do horrible things."

"Really?" Sam stared at her. "How'd Voldemort control them?"

"I'm not sure, but I expect he made some sort of deal with them, perhaps even did them a few favors; ritual human sacrifices—that sort of thing." She made a face as she scanned a heavy tome. "Oh, this is _disgusting._"

Sam clacked away at his laptop, calling up information on Godric's Hollow.

"There's a bit of a dispute what the town's named after," he said quickly, changing the subject. "It's either a saint or some guy named Gryffindor—"

"Really?" Hermione asked interestedly. "Godric Gryffindor is one of the most famous wizards in the entire world! He was a founder of Hogwarts." She blushed. "Actually, Harry, Ron, and I are all in his house—Gryffindor."

"Should I even ask?"

She smiled and briefly explained about the four "houses" at Hogwarts and the qualities associated with them.

"Hey, Hermione, why weren't you in Ravenclaw?" Sam asked after she'd finished. "Sounds like you fit the bill."

"I may be smart," she said quietly, "but there's more to me than brains." Sam grinned.

"I don't doubt it." He perused the Godric's Hollow site, then blinked. "Huh. Well, there's several ancient artifacts located in the local museum, apparently they're valuable. Although what's so great about some inkwell, I wouldn't—"

"Inkwell?" Hermione asked sharply, practically throwing the book she was reading down. She leaned over and scanned the text on the laptop. "Oh my," she murmured, eyes wide. "Sam, I think you might have found a Horcrux."

--

The house had been warded.

The angelica root had been placed in strategic south, east, north, and west corners of the house and the salt had been scattered.

Dean had loaded three guns (one with rock salt, one with silver bullets, and one with regular bullets) and had his iron knife on hand. Ron had his wand out (which was really all the kid needed anyways).

And now, there was nothing to do but keep watch for fake fireworks and make sure the house didn't get ambushed while the others were away.

"Dude, this is boring," Dean announced, letting his head loll back against the wall. "Seriously. You'd think we could more useful."

"This _is _useful," Ron informed him from his strategic position in the window-seat (he had a good view of the rooftops across the village and, consequently sparks, should Harry decide he was in over his head). "Frankly, I need a bit of a break."

"Those two keep you busy?" Dean asked conversationally. Ron snorted appreciatively, rolling his eyes.

"That's one way of putting it." He sighed. "It's hard being away from everyone at home, and we've already gotten into a couple of duels with some of You-Know-Who's spies…"

"Who?"

"You-Know-Who—oh, for the love of—it starts with a _V_, mate."

"Voldemort?" Dean asked bemusedly.

"Yes, _him. _Look, if you know what's good for you, don't say the name." Ron shuddered. "Not unless you've got a death wish."

"Your friends say the name," Dean pointed out. "What's the difference?"

"The difference is I was raised to believe that saying that name meant your family died," Ron snapped. "It's not the same for Hermione, she doesn't really understand what it's like, growing up with that kind of fear…and Harry is Harry, and his family _is _already dead, so…"

"Okay, okay, I get it," Dean said, sighing, then quickly switched topics. "So. You've known Harry and Hermione for a long time?"

"Yeah," Ron said. "We've been best friends since first year."

"And…uh, you and Hermione?" Dean grinned at him. "Man, you're like _into _her."

"What?" Ron's ears went bright red. "I—erm—"

"Oh, please don't tell me you haven't _done _something about it? C'mon, what've you got to lose?"

"It's complicated," Ron said through gritted teeth, obviously displeased somebody he'd barely known twelve hours could read him so easily. "Leave it, ok?"

"Ok, ok. I'm just sayin', is all."

Ron sighed long-sufferingly and let his head rest against the window; Dean stared down at his hands and seriously considered twiddling his thumbs.

Then his cell phone rang.

--

Ron and Dean made it to the museum roughly half a minute before Hermione and Sam hurried in, both of them excited.

"Are you sure it's a Horcrux?" Ron asked immediately as Hermione burst through the door.

"Almost, but not quite," she said breathlessly. "It says it was donated by a charitable old woman in on her deathbed; apparently it's got a sapphire inset, bronze base, and raven etched on the side!"

"Ravenclaw," Ron breathed. "Merlin!"

"Let's just find it," Sam said hurriedly. He glanced around, puzzled—the museum was deserted but for an old woman at an information desk, and she was sound asleep.

"Guess we'll show ourselves in," Dean suggested smarmily, and they slipped past her and into the next room, which had display cases and paintings haphazardly scattered throughout it. They parted ways, each one of them taking a separate corner of the small room and perusing the cases. Twenty minutes later, they had their answer.

"It was here all right," Dean said grimly, pointing to the empty case. A pitiful paper placard announced that the inkwell was temporarily 'not available for show,' which was in itself far too suspicious for anybody's tastes.

"We'll get it back," Hermione told a highly annoyed looking Ron soothingly. "I'm sure we will."

Dean and Sam exchanged worried glances.

--

The false alarm drove Dean and Ron back to the house and Hermione and Sam back to the library—there wasn't anything else to do at the museum, and they grabbed a quick lunch at the Inn before parting ways.

"Did someone get here before us?" Dean asked Ron as they headed back into the house. "Or did Vo—uh, I mean, You-Know-Who—hide it years ago?"

"Who knows?" Ron asked glumly. "You can bet Hermione will find out, though," he added, a hint of pride in his voice. "Believe me, she's found the un-findable loads of times before this."

"Sam's good at that, too," Dean said. "Maybe between the two of them, they'll come up with some more info." He flopped down on the floor and glanced up at Ron expectantly. "So what do we do now?"

"Wait some more, I guess." Ron sighed. "I really wish Harry'd let me go with him…"

"You take orders from him?" Dean asked curiously.

"No," Ron said shortly, ears turning red, "it's not like that. It's just that…well, Hermione and me kind of told him if we followed him on this, it would be on his terms." He sat down next to Dean, elbows propped on his knees. "I mean, you heard what his life's been like…he never had anyone before Hogwarts, and he keeps losing people."

"Yeah," Dean said quietly, "that's tough."

The two young men sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Dean's natural restlessness got to him again. Impatiently, he began drumming his fingers on his knees, fidgeting like a two-year-old in a stroller. Ron eyed him in some amusement, grinning at the older man cheekily.

"Problems?"

"Yup," Dean announced. "I'm bored. Again. Isn't there _anything _we can do?" Ron actually appeared to consider this, then his face lit up.

"Hey, I've got an idea—Merlin, I haven't played in _ages_!" He scrambled to his feet and bounded into the kitchen, rummaging in one of the many sacks, before returning with a smooth, wooden box.

"What's that?" Dean asked warily, eyeing it skeptically.

"Well," Ron said, sliding the top of the box off, "what d'you know about chess?"

--

Sam had been going through museum records for what seemed like endless hours, and now everything seemed to be blurring together. The most he'd been able to come up with was that the inkwell hadn't been on display for about sixteen years ("The website must just say it's there to make it seem as though the museum's got more interesting things than it actually has," Hermione reasoned irritably.) and they were guessing that was when Voldemort had gotten to it. Hermione had been poring over tome after tome on demon lore, as well as all that was known about Voldemort, but she hadn't been able to find much either.

Finally, the librarian came to tell them the library was closing—it was eight o'clock already; where had the day gone?!—and they had resolutely packed up and decided to go see the others about maybe eating some dinner. Hermione glanced nervously up at the sky and shivered slightly, shifting the bag of books on her shoulder.

"I really hope we figure something out fast," she said. "I don't fancy that werewolf attack happening as you saw it tomorrow."

"Yeah, me either," Sam admitted as they drew up to the house. "And that Voldemort guy…not looking forward to making _his _acquaintance." Hermione snorted.

"Let's hope we can prevent that."

When they entered the house a few moments later, they found Ron and Dean sprawled on the kitchen floor drinking butterbeer and playing chess.

"You dundering idiot Muggle!" one of the knights screamed at Dean. "Can't you see his rook? Don't make that move!"

"Shut up," Dean advised the chess piece grumpily. "It's the only move I can—hey, you took my queen!"

"I told you," the knight moaned.

"Check," Ron piped up delightedly, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I can't believe you're playing _chess_. We've been buried in books all day!" she cried.

"Hey, what else were we supposed to do?" Ron asked, easily capturing the bishop Dean had used to defend his king. "Check," he added to Dean, smirking.

"Where's Harry?" Sam wondered, peering around. "Not back yet?"

"Nope," Ron said lazily, then frowned over at Dean. "Oi, you can't do that! You're still moving yourself into check."

"What? But—oh, I forgot those stupid pawns attack diagonally—"

"Watch who you're calling stupid, scruffy!" an exasperated pawn hollered.

"He's been gone an awfully long time," Hermione observed, sorting through the sack of food to find something for dinner. "I wonder what could be taking so long?"

"Maybe he got a lead," Ron suggested as he scowled at Dean again. "Mate, that's _check._"

"Dammit." Dean resolutely reached for the king to move him a square backwards, but was cut short as every piece on the chessboard, Ron, Hermione, and even Sam all screamed,

"_CHECK!" _

"Agh!" Nearly tearing out his hair, Dean sacrificed the last piece he had (a knight), and Ron grinned triumphantly as Dean's captured pieces moaned in despair, prodding at his smirking queen to get her to close in for the kill.

"That's a—"

Suddenly, a loud, piercing wail announced that the wards had been disturbed. Everyone in the kitchen froze; even the chessmen stopped grumbling.

"Maybe it's just Harry," Sam suggested quietly as the wailing grew louder and more insistent.

"No," Ron said, shaking his head, face oddly pale. "I set it so that if it was any of us, we could get through just fine. It's someone else."

"Volde—sorry, You-Know-Who?" Dean asked nervously, eyeing the front door.

"Maybe."

"But it's not full moon yet!" Dean protested.

"Like I said, the worst werewolves come out when it's _not _full moon," Ron said, gulping. "C'mon. We better go see who's come calling."

Dean tossed a pistol filled with rock salt at Sam, keeping the one with the silver bullets for himself. After all, in the vision, it was him who had dived at the werewolf. Hermione and Ron, exchanging glances, drew their wands.

At that precise moment, the back door slid open and Harry tumbled inside, dirty, sweaty, and panting.

"Quick," he gasped. "Someone's trailed me here! I don't have a clue who it is, but there's two of them, and I've been trying to lose them all day!"

"Harry?" Ron turned to him, mouth hanging open. "What in the name of—"

"No time to explain," Harry managed, fumbling for his wand. "Is that the ward wailing—ugh, what am I saying, of course it is! They're here!"

"Calm down," Hermione advised firmly. "We've got to be sensible about this." She waved her wand once, silencing the ward, and then peered out the window through the parted curtains. "Let's see if we can't sneak up on them quietly, have the element of surprise."

"She's right," Dean piped up, cocking his gun and rolling his eyes. "Stealth is _essential._" And with that, he stalked to the door, flung it open and marched outside.

"So much for subtlety," Ron muttered, but he followed Dean nonetheless. Sam, Harry, and Hermione trailed after them, each holding their respective weapons out threateningly.

Dean squinted through the darkness of the still, cool, October evening—he couldn't see much, but he did hear a stick crack sharply.

"Is anyone out there?" he called loudly. There was a muffled squeak, followed by the sound of somebody crashing into one of the bushes.

"Oi!" Ron called. "Who's there?" He and Dean bounded forward towards the sound, and Dean dove just in time to catch one black cloaked figure around the waist.

"Gotcha!" Dean cried triumphantly, hauling the rather light, struggling figure up by the waist and towards the light of the door. A girl (Hermione, maybe?) screamed angrily, and Dean could hear crashes and loud exclamations of pain before Sam and Harry stumbled forward, each holding one end of the other figure. Ron and Hermione followed, blocking various spells the figure was shooting out of their wand.

"Excuse me," Dean's mysterious figure said serenely, "would you mind putting me down? You've caught us now, I think."

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, smirking. He dumped the person onto the wooden floor of the foyer, raising an eyebrow as her hood fell back to reveal a thin girl with long, tangled blonde hair and huge pale eyes. She smiled up at him dazedly and said calmly,

"Well, hello there!"

"Hi," Dean said, eyeing her. "What the hell were you doing out there?" The girl opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment, Harry and Sam managed to tug the other figure through the doorway and Hermione fell backwards into Ron as she caught sight of the girl on the floor.

"_Luna?!" _she cried. "Luna, what in the name of Merlin are you _doing _here?"

"Harry Potter, let me down!" cried the other figure. "You've ruined _everything,_ you stupid idiots we were going to—"

"What in the name of—no, no, it can't be!" Ron's face had gone rather crimson (fury, maybe?) and he stalked forward, hauling the figure out of Sam's arms (Harry had fallen back, face ashen) and yanked its hood away.

Another girl swayed slightly on her feet, her freckled cheeks pink and her dark red hair spilling out over her shoulders. Hermione's mouth dropped open again, Ron fumed in stunned silence, Harry continued to look terrified, Sam looked puzzled, and Dean's eyes glazed over at the sight of the pretty young girl and had to remind himself, _That would be felony, man. FELONY. _

"Hullo," the girl finally said, looking a cross between embarrassed and miffed. The other one, Luna, had clambered to her feet and made her way to stand by the other girl, tucking her wand behind her ear.

"Ginny," Harry managed weakly. "You're supposed to be in school." Her eyes fired up.

"Yeah, well so are you," she said loudly, "but that doesn't seem to be stopping you."

"Gin, you _know _why I—"

"Oh, yes, yes, don't we all. The great, noble Harry Potter has to go and save the entire world, never mind the fact that there's an entire Order of the Phoenix for that, no, no matter. He gets to drag _my _brother and _my _friend off on some stupid quest and—"

"Don't start that crap again! I _explained_—_"_

"Yeah, well it wasn't good enough for me," the girl—Ginny—announced fiercely. "If you thought I was just going to sit at school like a good little girl while you three risked life and limb, then you don't know me nearly as well as you've pretended you do." She shot him a particularly nasty look and Harry's cheeks went from ashen to red.

"You can't be here," Ron cut in firmly. "I'm writing Mum, you see if I don't. And you!" He gestured to Luna. "_You're _Ravenclaw! You're supposed to be smart! Why didn't you stop her?"

"Oh, as if I could have done that," the odd girl said blithely. "A pack of Hornfanged Wazznoggilers couldn't have kept her at Hogwarts, Ronald."

"Uh, sorry to interrupt this little reunion," Dean said, "but who _are they_?"

"Who are we?" Ginny turned to him, scowling fiercely. "Excuse _me_, but who are _you _two?" She gestured to Sam as well, then folded her arms angrily.

"I don't think we owe you any explanations," Ron cut in furiously. "Ginny, how could you be so bloody stupid? If I have to drag you back to school by your _hair, _I swear to Merlin I will!"

"And write to Mum too, Ronnie? Gee, you sure have gotten scary and brave."

"Stubborn little—"

"Don't you start with me!" Ginny cried. "I'm not the one who abandoned my entire family on the eve of my brother's _wedding. I'm _not the one who's had Mum in tears for months! _I'm _not the one who's got everyone worried sick, and _I'm not the one who left without even saying goodbye._"

There was a stunned silence in which Harry and Ron looked ashamed, Hermione looked close to tears, Luna stared absentmindedly at her feet, and Sam and Dean exchanged confused glances.

"Erm, excuse me, but we've been waiting for a long time, now," a tiny voice squeaked impatiently. Everybody turned to see who had spoken, and were slightly surprised when they saw the queen Ron had set on Dean's king during the forgotten chess game waving a tiny scepter at them. "Checkmate!"

Dean grimaced as Sam bit back an ironic smile.


End file.
